


Under New Management

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fred Lives, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, F/M, First Date, First Kiss, First Time, Not Epilogue Compliant, Quidditch, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holyhead Harpies have a new team owner, and Ginny is not pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ginny

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this for my two besties, because this is one of the few ships we can all get on board with. It's gonna be a long one, so strap yourselves in. Just a note, I know next to nothing about sports, so any and all sports-related information is courtesy of Google or my family and friends, who know a great deal more than I do. Any sports flaws are due to my own lack of knowledge. Any British-English language flaws are due to the fact that I'm an American and all of my knowledge of British slang comes from YouTubers. And any other spelling or grammar mistakes, you should alert me to, so I can fix them.

The start of practice for a new Quidditch season meant Ginny’s life went back into overdrive. The few weeks the players were given to rest and recuperate, reconnect with the friends and family who’d fallen by the wayside in favor of teammates and training and traveling to match after match, were never enough. It all went by too fast: the family dinners, the late nights spent catching up with friends, the mornings after spent sleeping in (sleep was a luxury in the life of a professional Quidditch player).

And then, all at once, it was back to work. Back to early mornings and exhausted nights, hours of flying and catching and throwing and getting pelted by Bludgers, and all in the hopes that this would be the year the Holyhead Harpies would finally make it to the playoffs.

Ginny had played for the Harpies for four years – they’d recruited her straight out of Hogwarts – and never once had the team won enough matches to advance to the playoffs. It was disappointing, there was no doubt about that. Of course, winning wasn’t the only reason Ginny played – she loved Quidditch, loved it more than anything else in the world (except her family) – but she wanted her team to do well. And she believed that they could. They had the talent; they just needed the right organization, the right motivation, and the right leadership.

Fortunately, this season, the Harpies were undergoing a few major changes. The team had a new owner, a new manager, and even a few new players, and Ginny would be meeting them all for the first time today. She was tentatively excited. This could be exactly what the team needed. Or it could end catastrophically. But she was trying to focus on the bright side.

The alarm spell Ginny cast the night before went off at precisely five o’clock, waking her up even before her flatmate, Hermione, a notorious early riser. Ginny didn’t particularly like waking up early; in fact, she hated it. But practice started at seven, and Ginny liked to give herself plenty of time to eat a balanced breakfast beforehand.

So she woke with minimal grumbling, rolling out of bed and padding across the hardwood floor to the bathroom she and Hermione shared. She brushed her teeth in a sleepy haze, not bothering to shower; it seemed counterproductive, seeing how she was just going to get sweaty at practice and would need to shower again anyway. Returning to her bedroom, she dressed in the airy, breathable shirt and trousers that went on under her Quidditch robes, which would be waiting for her with her pads and broomstick in the team’s locker room.

After getting dressed, it was time for breakfast. Mealtimes were when Ginny missed the Burrow the most. The Weasleys made every meal into a grand affair, with Molly’s delicious cooking at the center of it all. Ginny was a fair cook, and breakfast for one was hardly a difficult thing to pull off, but sitting at her kitchen table alone, munching her way through a plate of eggs and bacon, Ginny missed her mother’s cooking. She even missed her brothers’ chaos. It had been a while since they’d all been together. Bill and Charlie were so often abroad, and Ron and Percy were both constantly caught up in Ministry business.

Hermione emerged from her separate bedroom just as Ginny finished eating. She was dressed for her job at the Ministry – in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, a name Hermione took issue with (“it sounds so oppressive”) – with her hair pulled back out of her eyes and bursting against the elastic band that held it. Her face was devoid of makeup, as was Ginny’s; the pair of them had very few things in common, but an almost total lack of traditionally feminine interests was one of them.

“Excited to be playing Quidditch again?” Hermione asked, helping herself to Ginny’s leftovers. Ginny charmed her dishes clean and levitated them back into the cabinets.

“Exhausted, mostly.” Ginny yawned loudly, proving her point. “I’ll be excited once I get on my broom.” She remembered the feeling well: high above the world, wind rushing past her, a feeling of total freedom, total euphoria. It was a feeling nothing else could compare to, and Ginny would wake up early every day for the rest of her life if that was what it took to feel that way again.

“I hope so,” Hermione said with a smile over her cup of coffee. “Harry, Ron, and I have already bought our season tickets. We’ll be at every game.”

Ginny knew she meant it. Despite their busy schedules, her friends and family were always there to support her at her games, dressed head to toe in green and gold and loudly cheering her on. It all meant more to her than she could ever express.

“Do you want to go out tonight to celebrate? Or will you go out with your teammates?” Hermione asked. She was currently devoting half her attention to their conversation and the other half to a stack of parchment she was marking up.

“How busy do you reckon everyone will be Friday evening?” Ginny replied. “I’d love for us all to get together. You, Ron, Harry, Luna, Neville. We could go to Hogsmeade, so Harry and Neville don’t have to travel far. I feel like we haven’t all been together in ages.”

Hermione considered this with a thoughtful expression for a moment. “Friday should work for me,” she said finally, nodding. “I’ll send owls to the others.”

“Brilliant.” Ginny checked the time. “I should be going, then. Need to gear up before practice, and everyone will want to catch up, of course.”

“Of course. Good luck!”

With a final wave, Ginny Disapparated, and the cozy intimacy of her and Hermione’s flat melted away, replaced by the coast of Holyhead in Wales. A brisk, salty breeze tossed her ginger hair this way and that. The Harpies’ Quidditch pitch was set apart from the town of Holyhead and protected by a number of spells to keep the Muggles away. They’d had a few incidents during games – Muggles had wandered into the stadium and had to have their memories wiped – but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a quick Memory Charm.

When Ginny reached the locker room, she found that a few of her teammates had already arrived. The team captain, Gwenog Jones, was currently strapping on her shin guards, engaged in conversation with another Beater, Shanthi Prasad. Angelina Johnson clapped Ginny on the shoulder and greeted her warmly. Ginny had seen Angelina more recently than any of her other teammates; she and Fred were living together, so Angelina came to many of Molly’s family dinners. The family was expecting an engagement any day. So was Angelina. Fred, however, was dragging his feet. Weasley men were notorious for being slow on the uptake.

“Good to see you again, Gin,” Angelina said. Ginny nodded in acknowledgement of her greeting and started gearing up. First her green-and-gold robes, followed by shin guards, arm guards, and gloves. When she was dressed and ready, she withdrew her broom, her precious Firebolt. It was her second most prized possession, after her wand, and easily the most expensive thing she owned. The entire team had them, bought and paid for by the team’s previous owner, though they weren’t allowed to use them outside of official team practices and games. Ginny’s recreational broom was a much cheaper model.

The rest of the team trickled in slowly, all ultimately arriving on time. In all, there were ten of them: Chasers Ginny Weasley, Angelina Johnson, Florence Ivers, and Olivia Reece; Beaters Gwenog Jones, Shanthi Prasad, and Fiona Tipton; Keepers Pallavi Gadhavi and Zoe Kendrick; and Seeker Alice Hart. Alice, Florence, and Olivia were all new additions; they’d played for other teams last season, or, in Olivia’s case, came straight out of Hogwarts.

The Harpies weren’t the best team in Britain, but there were times when Ginny was glad to be on Britain’s only all-female Quidditch team. It was a nice change from all the time she spent as the only daughter in a house full of sons.

When everyone had finished getting ready, Gwenog stood, addressing the team. She looked fierce, proud, and worthy of the respect she commanded. The team was silent before her, hanging on to her every word. She was a capable captain, if a bit full of herself.

“Alright, team,” Gwenog said, voice echoing sharply through the locker room. “You’ve had your time off, and now it’s back to work. Just because we don’t start playing for a few weeks, doesn’t mean you can slack off until then. We didn’t do so well last season, but that’s all going to change.” She nodded to the new additions to the team. “We’ve got ourselves a new Seeker and two new Chasers, a new manager, and even a new owner. You’ll be meeting both of them today. Our manager wants to oversee practice today to see what kind of shape we’re in, and our owner will be stopping by to meet everyone when we’re finished. So we all need to be in top form.”

Gwenog went on to briefly describe their schedule for the day. These first weeks of practice would primarily consist of basic training, attempting to identify the teams’ strengths and weaknesses and develop strategies for their upcoming games. They met their new manager, former Keeper Rachel Pryce. No one famous, but Ginny respected her attitude immediately: no-nonsense, just like their captain, but without Gwenog’s harshness, and with an air of experience and understanding about her. Ginny hoped this initial positive impression would prove true in further interactions with the woman.

Practice began the way it always did: running laps around the pitch. Gwenog ran with them, as much a team member as anyone else, despite also being their captain, while Rachel watched from the stands. They did several more exercises on the ground, and Ginny was already sweating buckets when they finally got in the air.

Getting on her Firebolt and kicking off the ground was just as exhilarating as Ginny had anticipated. She laughed into the wind and threw out her arms triumphantly. Yes, it was good to be back. Everything she had to sacrifice to get exactly where she was, was all worth it.

Of course, the feeling of pure freedom faded a bit as Gwenog continued to run her team into the ground, flying around until their thighs burned and their arms could barely grip the handles of their brooms. As soon as Ginny dismounted at the end of practice, she collapsed on her knees in the grass, sweat dripping down her forehead and staining her robes. Her breath came fast and heavy, ripped painfully from her lungs, and her muscles were entirely spent.

Her teammates were in similar states, and Rachel looked down on them approvingly. They worked hard, that much was certain. Ginny could only hope this would be the season that hard work paid off.

Rachel approached Gwenog before the team could return to the locker room to shower and change. They exchanged a few words, Gwenog nodded, and Rachel left after sharing her overall positive impressions with the rest of them. “I’m sure your new owner will be pleased with his purchase,” she said with a bit of a smile.

Once Rachel had Disapparated, Gwenog turned to address them, tucking a sweat-soaked strand of hair behind her ear.

“According to Ms. Pryce, the team’s new owner is on his way here,” she said. “Let’s make a good first impression, shall we?” A murmur of agreement passed through the team. Ginny wondered who this new owner was. Some old, wealthy, out-of-touch man who’d never played Quidditch in his life, most likely. At least team owners weren’t actually all that involved in the team’s day-to-day and game-to-game activities. This would probably be the only time Ginny even saw the man. She’d never met their previous owner.

Gwenog led the team into their locker room. Their usual post-practice chatter was replaced by an eerie silence as they filed in, took seats on the benches along the walls, and waited. After what couldn’t have been more than a minute, sharp, precise footsteps echoed through the hall just outside. The door swung open.

Ginny’s heart stopped.

Standing in the doorway was their new team owner, dressed impeccably in all-black robes, long hair pulled back in a ponytail. And it was the hair that gave him away, really. The hair, and the face, with its familiar high cheekbones and long, pointed nose. Regal in every way, and yet everything Ginny despised.

Because standing in the doorway, was Draco Malfoy.


	2. Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter titles, in case you haven't noticed, indicate whose point-of-view the chapter is written from, George R.R. Martin style. I'm going to alternate between the two of them, so odd chapters will be Ginny, and even chapters will be Draco.

The Holyhead Harpies were an intimidating lot. Their uniforms mostly hid their muscular builds, but every one of them could likely crush Draco’s skull between their thighs. Sweat dripped down their faces and stained their robes; the bright green reminded Draco of all the years he spent playing Quidditch for Slytherin. Those memories left him with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he’d always loved playing Quidditch, always loved flying; on the other hand, he’d never truly felt welcome on the team. His father’s bribes had gotten him onto it in the first place, and anyway, Slytherins weren’t exactly known for their hospitality.

Draco wasn’t feeling particularly welcome among the Harpies, either. The semicircle of shocked expressions surrounding him told him the players all recognized him, which wasn’t a good thing, in his case. Angelina looked appropriately disgusted, and Ginny… well.

She looked good, Draco had to admit. Despite the somewhat unflattering way her mouth gaped open and her eyes bulged, staring at him. Despite the sweat that soaked her skin and hair and clothing perhaps more thoroughly than any of her teammates (Draco supposed being the youngest and only girl in a family of seven would make one into something of an overly competitive overachiever). Despite, even, the telltale bright orange Weasley hair and freckles so heavily dispersed across her face Draco could hardly make out the skin underneath.

Draco sighed inwardly. Why couldn’t the rivals of his youth have grown up unattractive? He’d seen them all recently; even Hermione had grown somewhat nicely into her bushy hair and unremarkable figure.

The stunned silence in the room stretched on a moment too long before Draco remembered himself. This was his Quidditch team now, he was the team owner, and these women expected him to say something. He’d prepared for this moment; he’d even prepared for Weasley, knowing she’d be on the team. And yet he’d allowed himself to be caught off guard. Disappointing.

“I can tell many of you recognize me,” he began, and this acknowledgement seemed to wipe the wide-eyed gazes off of many of the players’ faces, though not Ginny’s. She was unashamed of her reaction, her disgust. And why not? She had plenty of reason to feel disgusted by Draco’s presence, a presence which no doubt forcibly reminded her of the not-too-distant, not-too-pleasant past.

“Let me assure you,” Draco drawled on, raising his voice slightly, trying to assert his authority the way his father had taught him, “Despite what you may believe about my… history,” Ginny’s eyebrows lifted at his choice of words, but she didn’t say anything, “I do not intend for any of that to get in the way of our professional relationship.” Ten pairs of eyes watched him, waiting for him to change their minds, disprove their preconceived notions of him. They would be waiting a long time, were that the case. Draco felt no need to prove himself to anyone. To even attempt to do so was a futile venture, as he’d quickly learned following the Dark Lord’s final demise. People would think what they wished, and nothing Draco could do would change that.

“I’ve done my research on this team,” Draco said. He let his gaze rest on each player, acknowledging their presence, their importance to the team as a whole. His father had his flaws – he had many of them – but he was a talented public speaker, and he had passed at least some of this knowledge on to his son. “You have potential. Talent. Enough to make the playoffs. And that’s what I’m here to ensure: that you’re living up to your potential.” He paused for effect, to let his words sink in. “I didn’t buy this team so it could lose.” After one last look at the team – at _his_ team – he nodded sharply and turned on his heel. “That will be all.”

After leaving the Harpies behind, Draco waited outside the locker room for them to finish washing up and changing out of their uniforms. He needed to speak to Gwenog, the team captain, alone, to discuss the future of the team. He knew most Quidditch team owners were not very involved in their team’s day-to-day business; as long as they turned a profit, what did anything else matter? But Draco cared about more than money. He wanted his team to win. And perhaps it was because the only time his team had ever won the Inter-House Quidditch Cup at Hogwarts were the years Harry was unable to compete, and those had felt like hollow victories. Or perhaps it was just the Slytherin in him. But either way, he was going to do whatever it took to get the Harpies to the playoffs, right up to hopping on a broom and playing in their games himself.

As he stood on the pitch outside the locker room, Draco surveyed his surroundings, taking note of what, exactly, he had to work with. The stands rose around him, higher and farther apart than those at Hogwarts. They seated thousands of fans, though they were rarely full, as Draco had discovered when he’d come to a few games the previous season. Ticket sales could be improved. So could merchandise sales. This would be easily accomplished, of course, if the Harpies simply won more games.

Draco scoffed. “Simply.” He imagined it wasn’t such a simple feat to make it to the playoffs of Britain’s national Quidditch tournament. But these women could do it. He’d seen them play. They had it in them. That’s why he’d purchased this team in the first place.

The sound of footsteps marching in his direction brought Draco back to the present. He turned elegantly toward their source, smoothing back his hair and straightening his robes. He hadn’t expected the Harpies to clean up so quickly.

They hadn’t. The person approaching him was Ginny, and she was still just as filthy as she’d been in the locker room minutes earlier. She looked furious; her face was red beneath her freckles, and her hands were clenched into fists, one of them clutching her wand in a white-knuckled grip. Draco’s first instinct was to take a step back – he’d witnessed the Weasley temper firsthand on multiple occasions, and was less than eager to face it head-on – but he stood his ground. What could Ginny do to him? He was now the owner of her Quidditch team. If she hexed him, he could kick her off the team, and Draco seriously doubted she would risk that.

But she could scream at him. And that was exactly what she did. “What the _hell_?” she demanded, coming to a stop uncomfortably close to him. Again, Draco suppressed the urge to back away from her, instead remaining calm, raising a judgmental eyebrow at her melodramatic outburst.

“I hope you know how entirely inappropriate this sort of behavior is,” he said, looking her up and down. She hadn’t even removed her pads before coming after him. All she’d left behind was her broom.

“Inappropriate? Ha!” She poked him in the chest with her wand. “You wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.” She sneered, pocketing her wand and folding her arms over her chest. “I can’t believe you _bought_ my Quidditch team.”

The hint of a smirk danced across Draco’s lips. He let it play across his features, unwilling to hold back his derision completely. “I do believe it’s _my_ Quidditch team now,” he said. The look on Ginny’s face was priceless. What he wouldn’t give to see that same expression on each of the weasel’s siblings. What a sight that would be.

“Why?” Ginny demanded, once she had recovered. “Why buy _this_ Quidditch team? You _knew_ I played for the Harpies; I know you knew. You _had_ to have known!”

“Of course I knew,” Draco said, affronted. “I told you I did my research on this team, and I did. I knew exactly what I was purchasing when I bought this team. I knew this decision would mean interacting with a _Weasley_.” He said her name the way he always did when he was a child: like her family was so beneath him he could hardly believe he was forced to deign to speak of them. “I was hoping you and I could behave professionally around one another.” He sneered down at her. “Apparently I overestimated your maturity.”

And _that_ got her riled up. Ginny reeled back, a look of utter shock on her face rivaling the one she’d given when Draco had first arrived. Her hand moved reflexively for her wand, but she didn’t withdraw it. “You’ve got a lot of nerve to show up here and insult _my_ maturity. My teammates back there,” she pointed behind her, toward the locker room, “They all think you’re some sort of hardened criminal who’s only managed to keep out of Azkaban because of how rich you are. But I know the truth. You’re not a criminal; you’re hardly even a Death Eater. You’re just a playground bully whose childhood rival has outgrown him. Harry’s moved on, so you’ve come to torture the only one of his friends you can gain some sort of influence over. Well, you’d best back off, because I’m not going to take any of your shit quietly. You so much as look at me wrong and I’ll have Ron raid your house again; I’m sure the Aurors missed a few Dark artifacts the first time they searched the place.”

“Your brother can’t do a thing to me, and he knows it,” Draco said calmly, unafraid of her threats. He knew there was nothing Ron would love more than to come into Malfoy Manor and tear the place apart looking for signs the Malfoys had returned to their Dark ways, but his superiors would never allow it. Every such venture had proved fruitless in the past; it was a waste of resources. The Malfoys hid their darkness well. “And I have no intention of torturing you, Weasley. Everything I said back there was true. I purchased this team because I believe you all have great potential, and you’ve been wasting it.”

“You can pretend you’ve got noble intentions all you want, _Malfoy_ ,” and oh, the utter disdain in her voice when she spoke his name rivaled anything even he could muster, “But that’s not who you are, and we both know it. You’re not a hero. You’re not even a villain.” She took another step back, looking at him coolly. “You’re nothing but a ferret.”

With a sweep of her robes, she turned, disappearing into the locker room. A flare of anger rose in Draco’s chest; he shut his eyes and breathed it out slowly. She was just trying to provoke him. He couldn’t let her win in that regard. The only winning he wanted her to do, in fact, was at Quidditch.

Refocused on his goal, Draco Disapparated. He would speak to Gwenog at a later date. For now, he needed to meet with the Harpies’ new manager, a Rachel Pryce. He’d hired her personally, impressed by her knowledge of the sport, as well as her passion for it. It was a passion they shared. Because Draco hadn’t entered this business venture on a whim. He wanted to get back into Quidditch and, since wasn’t skilled enough to play professionally, this was the only way he could. So he would do all it took to stay in the game.

Even if it meant working with a Weasley.


	3. Ginny

Hermione and Ginny waited at their table in a secluded corner of the Three Broomsticks. They were there early, because when one was traveling with Hermione Granger, one was always early.

Harry and Neville were the next to arrive, coming from Hogwarts, where Harry was Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and Neville taught Herbology. Ron was next, having Apparated straight from work at the Ministry, and, finally, Luna, from her father’s house, where she and Xenophilius co-edited the _Quibbler_. They ordered butterbeers and a few light snacks, and once they were settled, all eyes turned to Ginny.

“You said in your owl you had news?” Harry prompted. Hermione, of course, already knew what Ginny was about to say; Ginny had ranted to her late into the night after that first practice, after she and Draco had gotten into a shouting match on the Holyhead Quidditch pitch. Hermione had been very comforting and supportive, but Ginny was still looking forward to getting the rest of her old friends’ thoughts and opinions on the matter. It had been five days since she’d learned Draco was the new owner of the Holyhead Harpies, and she still didn’t know what she was going to do about it.

Ginny took a deep breath. It did nothing to calm her. Just thinking about Draco Malfoy was enough to make her upset. “The Harpies have a new team owner,” she said tetchily, “And a new manager. And three new players.”

“How are they fitting into the team?” Harry asked, clearly expecting Ginny to give a bad report, given her mood. He and Ron were always all ears when Ginny spoke of Quidditch. Hermione, Neville, and Luna, meanwhile, were far less invested.

“It’s still too early to tell for certain,” Ginny admitted, “But I’m optimistic. They’re all talented, that much I can tell. And I really like our new manager. It’s the owner I’ve got a problem with.”

“What’s the problem?” Ron asked.

“It’s Draco Malfoy.”

Ron choked on a large swig of butterbeer, hands slamming down on the table, shaking their glasses. “ _What_?” he exclaimed. Harry and Neville wore twin expressions of horror. Hermione frowned, still sympathetic to Ginny’s plight even though she’d already heard all about it, and Luna was, as she so often was, mostly unfazed.

“What’s that prick doing buying a Quidditch team?” Ron demanded.

“And why would he buy _your_ Quidditch team? He had to have known you play for the Harpies,” Harry reasoned. “Why would he buy a Quidditch team if he knew one of the players was a Weasley? And Harry Potter’s friend?”

“He said he thinks the Harpies have ‘potential,’” Ginny said, rolling her eyes at Draco’s words. “But I still think he just wants to make me miserable to get back at you. Somehow.” She shrugged. “I won’t pretend to understand Malfoy logic.”

“For what it’s worth, I think he was telling the truth,” Hermione weighed in. “If he wanted to get back at Harry, why would he do it in such a roundabout way? And he actually _likes_ Quidditch, from what I know about him. If he were going to buy his own team, you’d think he would do it because he actually liked the team.”

“Why are you taking _Malfoy’s_ side, Hermione?” Ron asked, sounding betrayed. Hermione shook her head at him.

“I’m not taking anyone’s _side_ , Ronald,” she said, exasperated. “I’m not saying it’s a _good_ thing he bought Ginny’s team. I’m only saying he probably didn’t do it _because_ of her. It’s an awfully expensive thing to do just to get back at someone.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Ron said, taking another swig of butterbeer. Ginny scowled at her beverage. She wasn’t drunk enough for what she’d been putting up with lately. She debated ordering a firewhiskey. “I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

Luna spoke up, drawing everyone’s attention. Her light, airy voice sounded out of place in any conversation, but she always provided useful insight, coming at things from a different perspective from everyone else. “Has he done anything to single you out, Ginny?” she asked. “To make you, specifically, upset or uncomfortable?”

“His presence makes me upset and uncomfortable,” Ginny grumbled. Sadly, beyond that, she didn’t have any real reason to complain. Draco hadn’t _done_ anything, other than exist, which was more than enough, as far as she was concerned.

“At least you don’t have to see him all that often,” Ron said. “He’s just the owner. It’s not like he’s your team captain.”

“He’s not like any other owner I know of,” Ginny said. “He’s come to every practice this week. He sits in the stands and watches us the entire time.”

“Figures,” Ron said bitterly, like he was the one who now had to work for Draco Malfoy. “That just proves you’re right. He _is_ trying to torture you.”

“But he hasn’t approached you individually, has he?” Hermione asked. She already knew the answer to this, but with friends like Harry and Ron, she was well versed in the art of keeping a conversation on track.

“No,” Ginny admitted reluctantly. Draco had actually been, if not pleasant, then at least distant since she’d confronted him after their first practice. “We had a bit of a row on the first day, but since then we haven’t even spoken to each other.”

“You had a row?” Neville asked. “What about?”

Ginny shrugged. “Nothing specific. Just the fact that he’d bought the Harpies.” She chuckled. “I called him a ferret.”

“He didn’t threaten you or anything?” Ron asked. He looked ready to Apparate to Malfoy Manor and confront Draco right then. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? If he hurt you, I swear—”

“No, Ron, he didn’t hurt me,” Ginny interrupted before Ron could get himself too worked up. “And even if he tried to, I think I can handle myself.” She twirled her wand in her fingers. “I may not be an Auror, but I know my way around a wand.”

Hermione interjected before Ron could unwittingly insult his sister and start a fight they would all lose. “Well if Malfoy hasn’t hurt or harassed you, Ginny, I’m afraid there’s not much you can do, other than quit the team.”

Ginny knew this already, but hearing it from Hermione somehow made her situation seem so much more hopeless. If Hermione couldn’t think of a way for her to get out of this, who could? “I’m not going to stop playing Quidditch because of Draco Malfoy,” Ginny said, spitting out his name like a curse word.

“I’d tell you to ignore him,” Harry said, “But it’d be awfully hypocritical of me. I was never able to ignore him in school, even when I knew he only wanted to get a reaction out of me. He’s very talented at getting a rise out of people.”

“Git,” Ron mumbled into his butterbeer.

“He was always going after you, though, Harry,” Neville reasoned, “At school. He wouldn’t leave you alone. But Ginny says he’s not doing anything to single her out; he’s just watching her team’s practices. Right?” Ginny nodded. “So it should be easier to ignore him. Just focus on Quidditch. Pretend he’s not even there.”

“Neville’s right,” Hermione said. “You can be the bigger person here, Ginny. I know you can. This is hardly the worst thing to have happened to you. It probably doesn’t even make the top ten.”

Ginny thought back to her first year at Hogwarts, with Tom Riddle’s diary, and then to her last year at Hogwarts, when one of her brothers and two of her closest friends were off Merlin-knew-where for months, trying to stop Voldemort, and the rest of them were left behind to try to keep Hogwarts from falling to pieces. “It definitely doesn’t make the top ten,” she agreed. “You’re right. I just needed a little perspective. This isn’t that bad. Malfoy’s just watching us; he doesn’t even say anything to anyone. We haven’t spoken since the first day.” She smiled to herself, feeling accomplished now that she’d made her decision, even if that decision was to keep doing what she’d already been doing. “He’ll be easy to ignore,” she said with finality.

He wasn’t. Another two weeks of practice revealed this. Ginny would be doing just fine, running laps around the pitch or flying maneuvers through the air, and then she’d catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. Every day, he looked the same: tall, thin, dressed entirely in black, with that ridiculous ponytail that made him look just like his father. Except for his eyes. Like Harry, they were the only thing Draco had inherited from his mother. Ginny would think this was poetic, if she weren’t so annoyed.

Even a split-second glimpse of Draco Malfoy was enough to put her mind in a completely negative space. All she could think about was how much she hated him. About everything he’d ever done to make her, her friends, and her family miserable. Everything his _father_ had ever done. His entire family, really; opportunists and torturers, the lot of them. Draco was no different. Whatever his intentions were with the Harpies, they couldn’t possibly be so noble as Draco made them out to be. That wasn’t who he was. It never had been.

Of course, thinking about all this distracted Ginny from what she really should have been focused on during practice: playing Quidditch. After a few practices like this, Gwenog took her aside and asked her what was wrong with her, why her performance was so poor compared to last season. Ginny lied – a lie of omission, really – saying she was just distracted, couldn’t keep her head in the game. But it all boiled down to Draco. He was going to ruin her life, that man, and he wouldn’t even have to lift a finger to do it. Ginny would do it to herself, driving herself to distraction thinking about him, and that, _that_ was the truly infuriating thing. How little effort Draco had to put forth to truly derail Ginny.

The effect Draco had on Ginny only became more apparent as time went on. By the time the Harpies were scheduled to play their first match, Ginny was worried she wouldn’t be able to pull herself together, and even more worried that her poor performance would cost the Harpies’ the match.

She tried to force these worries from her mind as she emerged with the rest of the team onto the Appleby Arrows’ pitch. The Arrows were a decent Quidditch team, a fairly even match for the Harpies. The match could go either way, and the Harpies were all feeling the pressure. One player’s poor performance could throw the whole match.

 _Stop thinking like that_ , Ginny told herself as she kicked off from the ground and got in formation in the air. Unthinking, she scanned the crowd, the same as she always did at the start of a match, looking for her friends and family. She found them: a row of green and gold in a sea of blue. Her parents’ and brothers’ ginger hair was just as easy to identify, interrupted by Hermione’s mess of curls and Harry’s bespectacled face. Ginny waved to them, and they all waved enthusiastically back, their cheers blending in with the rest of the crowd. She grinned, almost forgetting why she’d been so nervous in the first place.

Then, all at once, her gaze caught on a now-familiar blonde ponytail and all-black ensemble, out of place amidst the brightly dressed fans. Her face fell, and her stomach dropped. For one happy moment, she’d almost forgot about Draco Malfoy.

“Oi! Weasley!” Gwenog was shouting from Ginny’s right. “Get your head in the game!”

The whistle blew, and the match started.


	4. Draco

In by far the most stressful Quidditch match Draco had ever attended, the Harpies barely managed to scrape a win against the Arrows. After the first ten minutes of playing time, Draco spent the rest of the match watching just one player: Ginny Weasley.

He was utterly confounded. He’d attended plenty of the Harpies’ matches the previous season, when deciding whether or not to purchase the team, and Ginny had been one of their best players. In today’s game, however, she’d only scored twice, had given up the Quaffle more times than any other Chaser, and had even been hit square in the chest by a Bludger she should have seen coming a mile away. Her poor playing could have easily cost Draco’s team the match. He didn’t know what Ginny’s problem was, but if it was going to affect the Harpies’ overall performance, he was going to need to get involved.

So, right after the match ended, Draco made a beeline for the locker room, waiting outside the door for Ginny to emerge. The rest of the Weasleys were waiting there as well, glaring at him openly. Their glaring only intensified when Draco sidestepped in front of Ginny the moment she appeared, blocking her from reaching her family.

“I need to speak with you,” he snapped. “ _Now_.”

The almost guilty look in Ginny’s eyes told Draco she knew exactly what this was about. She leaned over his shoulder to address the rest of the family.

“Don’t wait up for me,” she said. “I’ll meet you all at the Burrow when I’m done here.” A few of her brothers – particularly Ron – hesitated, but at a pointed look from Ginny, they departed.

Draco led Ginny around the back of the Arrows’ stadium for some sort of privacy. He may not have liked Ginny, but he wouldn’t call her out in front of the rest of her team. He couldn’t treat her any differently than he would treat any of her teammates.

Draco cast his gaze up and down Ginny’s figure. She wore a loose tank top and leggings, very casual attire; the low neckline revealed the beginnings of a large, nasty bruise forming between her breasts, where that Bludger had hit her. He wrinkled his nose. “You look awful,” he lied. True, the bruise wasn’t the prettiest thing Draco had ever laid eyes on, but he couldn’t deny how attractive Ginny was. Especially now, with her strong arms bare, scattered with a layer of freckles almost as thick as the one that covered her face, and every ridge and curve of her muscular legs put on display. A pity she was who she was, or Draco might have been tempted.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Thanks,” she said sarcastically. “You certainly know how to charm a lady.”

Draco raised a single, perfect eyebrow. “When have I ever given you the impression that I mean to charm you?” he drawled. “Tell me, so I can make sure never to do it again.”

Ginny didn’t respond to this, instead opting to glare coldly and cut straight to the chase: “What do you want?”

“That,” he pointed behind them, to the pitch, “Back there? Your performance today? Was unacceptable. I demand an explanation.”

Ginny sighed, dropping some of her guard in her exhaustion. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me the truth,” Draco said. “Is there something wrong? Anything I could help you with?”

Now it was Ginny’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “ _You_ want to help _me_?” The disbelief was plain in her voice.

“I want to help the team,” Draco said. How did she still not understand? “And that team needs you to perform at your highest capacity.”

“Then you’re in luck,” Ginny said matter-of-factly. “Turns out you _can_ help me perform better.”

Finally, they were getting somewhere. “How?”

“Stop coming to our practices. And our games.”

Draco frowned. “How would that help?”

“You distract me,” Ginny said. “I can’t focus on Quidditch when all I can think about is how much I hate you. I can’t focus when every time I look around, I see you sitting in the stands, _watching_ me.”

“I’m not just watching _you_ ,” Draco said, exasperated. “I’m watching the entire team. This team is a serious investment, you know. I want to ensure I make a profit on that investment. I need you all to win. I’m not leaving that to chance.”

“And how exactly does you watching us every day improve our chances of winning?”

Merlin, Ginny was dense. Did she really not understand that Draco just wanted to help the Harpies win? That, for once in their lives, they were actually on the same side? Or was she so stubborn in her hatred of him that she’d somehow managed to convince herself that this was all part of some elaborate plan to sabotage her? “It puts me in a better position to evaluate the team. Believe it or not, I do know a thing or two about Quidditch.”

“Can’t Rachel do that for you?”

Draco leveled her with a serious look. “We’ve known each other quite a long time now, Weasley,” he said. “Do I strike you as the sort of person to trust someone else’s judgment on something as important as the fate of an entire national Quidditch team?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “You make it sound so high stakes. It’s only one season. If we don’t make it to the playoffs this time around, there’s always next year.”

“Perhaps,” Draco agreed. “But how many more seasons will there be after that? If I can’t turn the Harpies into a successful and profitable Quidditch team, I’ll have to take my money elsewhere. You’ll need a new owner. Only… when your previous owner tried to sell the team, there weren’t a lot of people looking to buy. In fact, I was the only one. What happens when I can’t find another buyer? The Holyhead Harpies will cease to exist.”

This registered slowly in Ginny’s face, first as realization, then as horror. She fumed at Draco. “You can’t do that,” she growled. Her tone was a threat in itself.

“Of course I can,” Draco said. “I don’t want to. I truly don’t. But I am a businessman. And there are plenty of other Quidditch teams out there for me to buy.”

“We’re not that bad, though,” Ginny protested, anger giving way to desperation. “We haven’t made it to the playoffs in a while, but we’re not _bad_. The Chudley Cannons are still playing, for Merlin’s sake! We’re leagues ahead of them!”

And here was the difficult part. “The Chudley Cannons aren’t Britain’s only all-female Quidditch team,” Draco explained. “You know how the world works, Weasley; you’re no Granger, but you’ve got a head on your shoulders. Women always have it harder. There are people out there just waiting for the Harpies to lose, to fail, because it will prove right what they’ve suspected all along: Women can’t play Quidditch. They’re wrong, of course; you know that, and I know that. But not enough people agree with us. And that’s why the Harpies are in such a precarious situation right now. And that’s why I’m not leaving anything to chance.”

For several long moments, Ginny just gaped at him, his words processing in her head. “Why haven’t you told the rest of the team?” she asked.

“I thought it might affect their performance.”

“They still deserve to know!” she protested.

“Then I’ll tell them,” Draco said, willing to compromise here.

“But you won’t stop coming to practices? And games?” Ginny asked.

“No.” He would _not_ compromise there. “You’ll have to find a way to get over this ‘distraction’ I cause you.”

“What, stop hating you?” Ginny scoffed. “Not likely.”

Draco sighed. “Why are you so determined to hate me?” he asked.

“Gee, I wonder,” Ginny said, sarcastic again. “Could it be the way your father has taken every opportunity to make my father’s life miserable? Could it be the way you mercilessly bullied some of my best friends in school? Could it be that you and your entire family were _Death Eaters_ during the war?”

Draco’s left hand clenched reflexively. He struggled to control his temper. He was sick of running into his past wherever he went. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of it. “So you hate me for things my father has done, things I did as a child, and things I did to keep myself alive?”

“You’ve never once apologized for the way your family has treated mine,” Ginny persisted, “Or the way you treated my friends. I don’t even think you feel bad about it. And we all lived through the war. But not all of us became Death Eaters.”

Draco was shaking. He needed to get out of this situation, but his stubbornness, his argumentativeness kept him rooted in place. “Not all of you were personally threatened by the Dark Lord.”

Now Ginny was shouting. “You think you’re the only one who knows what it’s like to fear for your life?” She stepped into Draco’s personal space, gesturing wildly. “Voldemort was in my _head_! In my _head_ , for _months_ , and I nearly _died_! Worse, I nearly _killed_ people!”

Draco stumbled back, clutching his left arm to his chest. Ginny’s words echoed in his head. Sensations came rushing, unbidden, and the only clear thought in his head was that he needed to _leave_ , and he needed to do it immediately. “ _I am not talking about this with you!_ ” he shouted back, but his voice quivered, undermining his strength. He tried to reign himself in. “I don’t care why you hate me,” he said, almost managing to keep his voice steady. “Just don’t let it affect the team, or I’ll be forced to reduce your playing time.”

Before Ginny could respond, he turned and rushed away, his pace just shy of a run. The Arrows’ stadium was in the middle of a grove of trees; he stumbled behind one of them for cover and collapsed against it, head in his hands, heels of his palms pressed against his eyelids in a vain effort to stem the flow of images.

The Room of Requirement. A sense of desperation, the looming threat of death. The Astronomy Tower. A flash of green, an overwhelming feeling of fear for his life. He failed, and he was going to die. His parents were going to die. And his house, his _home_. It hadn’t been the same since… since _he_ had set up his headquarters there. Draco still expected to turn a corner and see him standing there, turn a corner and find some poor Muggle-born dead on his family’s dining room table, or that awful snake.

At some point, he started crying. He had the presence of mind to feel pathetic, crouched behind a tree after an argument with a Weasley, sobbing. He barely registered the sound of footsteps thumping against grass.

“Wait a minute, I’m not finished with you!” Ginny’s voice rang out, growing nearer with every word. “You can’t just leave in the middle of a—”

She cut off when she saw him, and Draco heard her start to retreat, so he held up a hand. “Wait,” he said, embarrassed but determined. He needed to make this right. He couldn’t run away crying from arguments every time anyone brought up the war; he needed to face what he’d done. If only for the sake of the team. “Don’t leave. You’re right. My father was wrong.”

Ginny stopped. “What?” she asked.

Draco brought himself unsteadily to his feet. He could tell Ginny almost reached out to help him up, and was grateful she didn’t. “He was wrong. To treat your family the way he did. We were all wrong. It was only ever based in… in pureblood supremacy. And I don’t… I don’t believe in that anymore. I’ve seen what it leads to. I don’t want any part in that; I never did.”

“Malfoy…”

Draco continued, not letting Ginny interrupt him. He had to say this now, or he never would. “And the war. You’re right about that too. It’s wrong of me to act like I was the only one who… who was affected by it. Everyone was. And a lot of people handled it much better than I did. But I’m not a Gryffindor, and there’s a reason for that. I’m not brave. I could never stand up to him. To the Dark Lord. To…”

“Voldemort,” Ginny said firmly. Draco cringed.

“Malfoy,” Ginny said again. Then, with obvious effort, “Draco. I’m sorry too. You were right about one thing; I’ve been acting immaturely. I don’t forgive you, because it’s going to take a lot more than a single apology to convince me of anything, but none of that should have any effect on our professional relationship. I shouldn’t let how I feel about you get in the way of my Quidditch performance. And from now on, I won’t.”

Draco summoned what little dignity and authority he had left. “That’s all I ask.”


	5. Ginny

Ginny was still reeling when she arrived at the Burrow that evening. Everyone had gathered there, besides Bill and Charlie, who were in Mexico and Hungary, respectively. Her twin brothers greeted her at the door, each throwing an arm over her shoulder, guiding her into the kitchen, where the family had already started eating dinner.

“Draco Malfoy,” Fred said, shaking his head in disappointment. “What rotten luck, eh, Gin?”

“Yeah,” Ginny said, only half-registering Fred’s words. She couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d just seen, what she’d just heard. Draco Malfoy, crouched behind a tree, crying, _shaking_. Draco Malfoy, apologizing for his father’s behavior, claiming to have changed as a person.

She remembered it, and another, separate scene played in her mind.

( _She and Harry first slept together not long after the Battle of Hogwarts, after the war was won. They were in Grimmauld Place, where Harry lived, all alone, though he spent most of his time at the Burrow._

_Harry woke halfway through the night, sweating and shaking. Ginny didn’t know what to do._

_“Harry? Harry, what’s wrong?”_

_Harry threw his arms around her, and Ginny returned the gesture, hugging him tight, clutching at him like he might disappear at any moment. He was shaking. “V-Voldemort,” he managed, his only explanation. Tears ran down his face and landed on Ginny’s shoulders._

_“He’s dead, Harry,” Ginny whispered in his ear, stroking Harry’s hair, which stuck up in all directions around his head. “He’s gone. You killed him. We all saw it. You destroyed all his Horcruxes and then you killed him. He’s dead and he’s not coming back.”_

_It took almost an hour for Harry to calm down. He was embarrassed about it the next morning, though he needn’t have been. Ginny understood._ )

“From what I’ve heard,” Molly was saying when Ginny’s attention returned to the present, “Ginny’s been very mature about this… _situation_ with the Malfoy boy.”

“I’ve been trying,” Ginny said.

“I don’t know how you do it, Ginny,” George said. “I can’t stand that prick, and I hardly even knew him in school.”

“I didn’t really know him either,” Ginny said. Everyone was making her out to be some sort of martyr, having to put up with Draco as a team owner. And true, until today, she would have agreed with them without a thought. But she was beginning to reconsider. “Not like Harry, Ron, and Hermione.”

“What’s he like these days, Gin?” Ron asked around a mouthful of food. Ginny grimaced at his poor table manners. “Still just as much of a prat, or has he somehow managed to get even worse?”

“He’s not as bad as I expected,” Ginny said. She didn’t know why she was defending Draco. Her family was clearly waiting for her to start complaining so they could all join in on the Malfoy-hating fun. But her thoughts kept taking her back to Draco, sitting on the ground. Draco, crying. Draco, apologizing. “I think…” She hesitated. “I think the war changed him.”

“Changed him how?” Percy asked. They all knew about the ways war could change a person, but Percy knew better than most.

“I don’t know,” Ginny lied, suddenly backing down from her defense of Draco. She was uncomfortable with the way her entire family was staring at her, hanging on to her every word. They all _hated_ the Malfoys. How would they react if she defended him, even in this small way? “I don’t want to talk about Malfoy anymore,” she said firmly. She turned to Hermione, who was sitting next to Harry, the two of them a pair of honorary Weasleys. “Hermione, you had an important meeting at work this week, didn’t you?”

“I did, actually!” Hermione said, and Ginny loved the way her eyes lit up when she spoke on something she was passionate about. “It was about these workplace regulations I’ve been pushing for, to protect werewolves from being fired because of their condition. It’s been difficult, getting anyone to pay attention to the issue, even though it’s such an important one. But it’s not nearly as difficult as my campaign for house elf rights. Although I’ve got an idea for a new approach to that, too…”

Hermione’s talk of work morphed into a more general conversation about work: about Arthur and Ron and Percy’s Ministry jobs, about Harry’s position at Hogwarts, about Fred and George’s shop, even about what Bill and Charlie were off doing. It was late when Hermione and Ginny finally Apparated back to their flat, and Ginny collapsed in bed, an aching mess, the bruise on her chest turning a sickening purple-green.

Despite her exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily to Ginny that night. She remembered the summer after her first year.

( _She was afraid to let herself go to sleep. Afraid that Tom would be able to take over her body again while she slept._

_It was irrational, she knew. She’d seen Harry destroy the diary, tear through it with a basilisk fang, but fear held more sway than logic when the night was dark and quiet and all she had were her thoughts. She wanted nothing more than to run to her parents’ room, wake them up and wrap herself up in their arms and cry, but she knew they were already worried about her, and that would only make them worry more._

_So she went to Fred and George, padded softly up the stairs to their room. They were still awake, sitting with their heads together on George’s bed, undoubtedly planning some sort of mischief. Their hushed voices stopped abruptly when they heard their door creak open. They accepted Ginny wordlessly between them, hugged her close and didn’t ask any questions. She finally fell asleep with her head on George’s chest. For the rest of the summer, she took turns sleeping in each of their beds, unable to trust herself on her own._ )

She wondered if Harry still had nightmares, and she wondered who else did. Did Neville dream about his parents, about Bellatrix, about the Carrows? Did Luna dream about her mother, about being kept prisoner in Malfoy Manor? Did Ron and Hermione dream about the months they spent Horcrux hunting with Harry? Did anyone still have dreams about the Battle of Hogwarts, about watching friends die around them?

What did Draco lie awake and think about at night?

When Ginny woke the next morning, she felt even more distracted than usual. She didn’t know how she was going to pull it together during practice. She thought about the prospect of having her playing time cut. It was frustrating, but she didn’t know what to do about it. Looking at Draco Malfoy made her think about Draco Malfoy, and thinking about Draco Malfoy made her think about the war, and thinking about the war… it distracted her like nothing else could.

She knew Draco was watching her when she emerged from the locker room that morning. She ran laps with the team, staying near the front of the pack the entire time; running didn’t take much concentration. The problems, she knew, would start when she kicked off from the ground. She glanced over to the stands, saw Draco standing there, same as always. From a distance, he could’ve been Lucius. Lucius, who’d snuck Tom Riddle’s diary into Ginny’s cauldron in Flourish and Blotts. Lucius, the man responsible for so much of Ginny’s past trauma.

 _No._ Ginny shook her head and grit her teeth. _Stop thinking about that. Lucius Malfoy isn’t here. This is Draco, and he can’t do anything to hurt you. He can’t even stand up to your Bat Bogey Hex. All he’s ever done to you is make fun of your family. Sticks and stones, Ginny. Sticks and stones._

Gwenog blew the whistle that hung around her neck, signaling that they should start practicing their maneuvers. Ginny dove, catching a Quaffle Angelina threw, feeling more focused than she had in weeks. She channeled all her emotion into her playing, tearing across the pitch until she forgot about Draco, forgot about Lucius, forgot about the war. Forgot about everything but the Quaffle in her hand, the wind in her hair, the broomstick between her legs.

No one acknowledged Ginny’s improvement except Gwenog, who clapped her on the shoulder after practice that day. “Welcome back, Weasley,” she said with a proud, lopsided grin.

It was good to be back.

Draco continued to distract Ginny – in fact, she couldn’t seem to get him off her mind – but from that day on, she managed to pull herself together for practice and games. The Harpies won their next five games, a combination of their new team members’ talent and the threat of the Harpies disbanding looming over their heads. Draco had followed Ginny’s advice and told the team about how he’d been the only person willing to buy the Harpies, about how, if they didn’t start winning more matches, he’d be forced to cut his losses and they’d all go their separate ways. None of them wanted that, least of all Gwenog. She rallied the troops, came up with new strategies, new maneuvers. She trained one-on-one with Alice, their Seeker.

The day before their seventh game, Draco came down from the stands at the end of practice, intercepting the team on their way to the locker room. All eyes turned to him, a few sighs hissing through the cluster of sweaty bodies. Resentment hung in the air, not because the man in front of them was Draco Malfoy, but because he was keeping them from the showers, from changing and going home for a few solid hours of relaxation followed by a good night’s sleep.

“I’ll be brief,” Draco said, apparently sensing the players’ impatience. “Octavian Fawley, owner of the Tutshill Tornadoes, has invited myself and all of you to attend a charity gala held at his mansion next Saturday.” Draco paused, letting this sink in. Ginny raised her eyebrows. A charity gala sounded like exactly the sort of highbrow formal event that would attract throngs of stuck-up purebloods. Not her cup of tea.

“None of you are obligated to come,” Draco continued, “And I have already forewarned Mr. Fawley that many of you may be otherwise engaged, but I know he would appreciate it if you were there. The event will require formal dress, of course. I believe your captain has attended a few such events before and can fill you in on the specifics. The gala begins at nine, although I would advise you to arrive no earlier than nine-fifteen. Questions?”

Angelina piped up from the back of the group. “What charity is it for?”

“The British Lycanthropy Research Society,” Draco said. Ginny scowled. It sounded like a worthwhile cause. Maybe she _would_ have to attend. “As an added incentive, I will add to my own donation for every one of you who makes an appearance.” Shit. Now she had to go. She would feel horrible if she didn’t. And she could only imagine what Harry and Hermione would say. “Thank you for your time. Excellent work today.”

With a swish of his cloak, Draco walked off, Disapparating midstride.


	6. Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates may be less frequent because school started and I'm also writing several other things while working on this. PLEASE leave kudos if you're liking this. That's what they're there for.

Fawley Manor was a suitable home for a reputable pureblooded family: spacious, gothic, dark. A crystal chandelier shed sparkling light down on a black marble floor. The ceiling was enchanted in the same manner as the Great Hall in Hogwarts, imitating the night sky overhead, a carpet of black cluttered with stars like the diamonds that adorned the necks, wrists, and ears of some of the wealthier female guests in attendance.

By the time Draco arrived at the gala – fashionably late, as his parents had always been – the ballroom was practically bustling with well-dressed VIPs. He spotted entrepreneurs, high-ranking Ministry officials, society darlings, the members of what pureblooded families still remained intact and out of Azkaban after the war, and, of course, representatives from the Lycanthropy Research Society. Elegant women in sparkling gowns and distinguished men in formal black robes sipped fizzing alcoholic drinks and discarded their empty glasses on shining silver trays that floated past their heads, enchanted with advanced Levitation Charms.

Draco recognized many of the gala’s attendees, and exchanged handshakes with those who acknowledged his presence. Not many did. It was no longer fashionable to be friends with the Malfoys. For obvious reasons. He had only scored an invitation to the event in the first place because of his and Fawley’s shared involvement in Quidditch. His parents, however, were not invited, a slight they had ranted on about prior to Draco’s departure. They still weren’t used to being excluded from high-class social functions.

Draco scanned the room for the Fawleys, Octavian and Adolpha. Draco spotted Mr. Fawley across the room, surrounded by his guests. Mrs. Fawley was similarly preoccupied. So, rather than force himself onto either one of them, Draco grabbed a glass of fizzing champagne off one of the floating trays and sequestered himself into an isolated corner of the room. He smoothed the front of his all-black ensemble, tightened the silk ribbon that held back his hair, and watched the crowds gathered around each of the Fawleys, waiting for an opportunity to sneak in and greet one or both of them. Their families might not have been close (at least, not since the war), but Draco’s parents had taught him long ago how to behave at events such as this. He would never leave a gala without first speaking to its hosts.

He also needed the Fawleys to point him in the direction of the head of the Research Society. Draco had read up on the organization before the gala – he never donated to a charity without first researching it – and wanted to discuss a few of their initiatives in greater depth.

Every few minutes, Draco glanced back toward the entry hall to see if any of the Harpies had decided to show up. Gwenog arrived around ten with Florence and Shanthi; Draco greeted them and pointed them in the direction of a few of the other Quidditch players who’d been invited. Florence and Shanthi were starry-eyed in their appraisal of the room, this being the first high society event they’d been invited to, while Gwenog had an air of haughty disinterest. Draco fleetingly mused on how well she would have fit in with pureblood society, had she been born into a wealthier family.

When the three Harpies walked off in the direction of the Tornadoes’ team captain and star Chaser, Jason Nguyen – a handsome specimen, that much was certain – Draco heard someone approach behind him and clear their throat. He turned, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

Ginny Weasley stood before him, taller than usual in her heels, with a sleek crimson dress hugging the curves of her muscular body. Her arms were bare, and her hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her skull. She wore little makeup, from what Draco could tell; a little mascara to darken her light eyelashes, but nothing to cover her freckles or color her lips. Draco found himself once again struck by how beautiful Ginny was, if not in an entirely conventional way. He’d never really been one for conventional beauty anyway.

 _A shame she’s a Weasley,_ he thought, though not quite as forcefully as he usually did. After all, what was really so bad about her being a Weasley anyway? The more he thought about it, the more Draco realized how much his hatred of the Weasleys was based only in what his father had taught him, that same goblin shit pureblood superiority, with an added dash of classism.

Her brother Ron was kind of a git, though. That was still true.

“Weasley,” Draco drawled, his tone carefully revealing none of what he was thinking. “You clean up surprisingly well.”

“Gee, thanks,” Ginny said sarcastically, clearly recognizing the backhanded nature of his compliment. She looked him up and down, and Draco felt an uncharacteristic flash of self-consciousness about his appearance. It faded as quickly as it had come. “You look about the same as you always do,” Ginny continued. Well, that wasn’t necessarily an insult. Draco was attractive. He knew this. “Do you own anything that isn’t black?”

“I own a bit of green,” Draco admitted.

“I should’ve known.” Ginny visibly fought a smile. In that moment, it almost felt like they were friends, teasing each other playfully, maybe even… flirting? But then Draco’s awareness of their status – Draco was a Malfoy, Ginny was a Weasley, and Draco was Ginny’s boss – shattered that little delusion.

“When did you get here?” Draco asked, back to business. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“I’ve been here since nine-fifteen, just like you told us to be!” Ginny said defensively.

“I said no _earlier_ than nine-fifteen.”

“Whatever.” Ginny waved a hand dismissively. “I just wanted you to know I came. So you can adjust your donation accordingly.” She paused, looked around the room. “So who is this Fawley who’s hosting tonight?”

“Former friend of the family,” Draco said.

“Former?”

“There was a bit of a… falling out during the war.”

“So this Fawley was a Death Eater, then?”

“I’m not answering that.” Especially because they both knew that answer was “yes.” All friends of the Malfoys were Death Eaters. At least, that was how it sometimes felt.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Smart woman. “Why lycanthropy?”

“The Fawleys angered the Dark Lord. So Fenrir Greyback infected their daughter. Clara. She’s eleven this year, I believe.”

“So Fawley _was_ a Death Eater.” Ginny gave a distinctly Granger-like look that said, “I knew it.”

“Not a very good one,” Draco pointed out.

“Neither were you.”

Draco’s smirk fell. His left hand twitched, and he took half a step back. He flashed back to the last time this had happened, outside the Arrows’ stadium.

No. He wasn’t going to do this. Not again. And not _here_.

“Excuse me,” he said stiffly, shoving past Ginny in the direction of Adolpha Fawley. The crowd around her was still thick, but he’d suffer claustrophobia if it meant avoiding another breakdown like the one he’d had in Appleby. “I need to speak with Mrs. Fawley.”

Ginny’s fingers wrapped around Draco’s left wrist, her grip inescapably tight, befitting of a professional Quidditch player. In grabbing him, her hand had slipped under the sleeve of his robes, and Draco was acutely aware of the fact that her palm was currently resting on his Dark Mark. He didn’t dare try to yank his arm from her grasp, for fear she might notice.

“Oh no you don’t,” Ginny said. She finally released Draco, and he drew his arm into his chest instinctively. He glanced around to make sure no one had seen their little spectacle. No one was watching. Thank Merlin. “You can’t just go running off every time one of us mentions the war,” Ginny hissed.

“You want to do this here?” Draco hissed back, leaning in closer to her. “In a crowded ex-Death Eater’s mansion during a charity gala?”

“It isn’t like you’ve given me any other opportunities,” Ginny retorted. “You disappear after every Quidditch practice and I can’t exactly show up to your house uninvited.”

“What do you even want me to say about the war? It’s over. Done. We were all there. There’s no reason to talk about it.”

“Yes there is!” Ginny protested. “I want to hear your side of the story.”

“I don’t like to talk about the war,” Draco said, leaning back again, drawing into himself as much as possible.

Ginny sighed. For a moment, she looked at him. Just looked at him, with pity in her eyes. Draco scowled. He didn’t want Ginny’s pity. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. Yet that was all he could seem to get anymore. Pity and hatred.

“I know you don’t,” Ginny said finally, reluctantly. “No one does. And… you don’t have to. It’s rude of me to try to force you. I’m sorry.” She nodded her goodbye and turned, scanning the crowd, presumably for her teammates.

A flash of anger flared in Draco’s stomach. He would _not_ have Ginny’s pity. That wasn’t how he wanted her to feel about him. He didn’t quite know how he did want her to feel about him, but he knew it wasn’t with fucking _pity_. “Wait,” he said, reclaiming her attention. Her warm brown eyes looked up at him. Now it was his turn to sigh. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He closed his eyes, ran a hand over his face. “After practice on Monday. We can… talk.”

Ginny looked pleasantly surprised. She smiled genuinely. It was a pretty smile. “Thank you.”

Draco waved her away. “Enjoy the gala.”

Ginny disappeared into the crowd, and Draco collected himself, placing his empty glass onto a passing tray and taking another, downing it in one long gulp. In that moment, there was nothing he wanted to do more than Apparate home, lay down in his bed, and wallow in self-pity. But he still needed to talk to the Fawleys, and the director of the Research Society. So he steeled himself, made his way into the slowly thinning crowd surrounding Mrs. Fawley, and prepared himself for a long night of socializing.

When he finally returned home to Malfoy Manor, he was thoroughly exhausted. The gate swung open with a wave of his wand and he marched up the long walk to the front door, then through the house, his shoes clacking loudly against the floor. He didn’t particularly care if he woke either of his parents. It wasn’t like they needed much sleep. They didn’t do anything, just stayed holed up at home and tried to micromanage every aspect of Draco’s life, since he was the only member of the family who even had anything resembling a life anymore.

When he finally collapsed in his bed and shut his eyes, rather than drifting into sleep, he found himself replaying a scene from earlier that night. To his surprise, rather than reliving the panic he’d felt when Ginny had wanted to talk about the war, he found himself thinking about the moment he’d first laid eyes on Ginny. He groaned. He just wanted to go to sleep; this was _not_ the time to be thinking about beautiful but unattainable women.

Not that her attainability mattered to him either way. Because she was a Weasley. And he was a Malfoy. And even if that stopped mattering – which it wouldn’t, even if it was based in pureblood supremacy nonsense – Ginny still hated him. As did her family, and her friends, and her teammates too, probably, even though he was their boss. (Probably, at least in part, _because_ he was their boss.)

So it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how pretty she was. It didn’t matter how his heart had sped up when she’d smiled at him. None of it mattered.

And yet he fell asleep remembering the feeling of her hand on his wrist, her skin touching his, and he felt something warm in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.


	7. Ginny

From the minute she left Draco standing by himself in the middle of the Fawleys’ ballroom until the minute practice ended on Monday, Ginny was anxious for her chance to talk to Draco about the war. She knew it was a rare opportunity; she didn’t get the impression Draco talked about the war to just anyone. She wondered what had compelled him to agree to speak to her about it. A desire for redemption, perhaps? To prove himself to one of the people who’d only ever seen the absolute worst in him?

Ginny had to admit, it would be nice if Draco genuinely regretted what he’d done. It meant Ginny could forgive him, and, to her surprise, she found herself very much wanting to forgive him. It was exhausting, hating him. She didn’t know how Harry had done it all those years. It would be so much easier if Draco were repentant, and they could both put their unsavory history behind them and start afresh. Then Ginny could focus on the important things in her life – friends, family, and Quidditch, not necessarily in that order – and get over this obsession she seemed to have developed.

Ginny emerged from the locker room after practice and scanned the stands for Draco. When she located him, she ran up the stairs to meet him, panting by the time she reached his side. “Malfoy,” she said. The intensity of the Harpies’ practice that day had left her in no shape to climb that many stairs.

“Weasley.” Draco extended a hand, looking at her expectantly. Ginny wrinkled her nose at the gesture. She wasn’t going to hold hands with him, if that was what he expected. Though she had no idea why he would expect such a thing.

Draco rolled his eyes at her lack of understanding. “We’re not talking here,” he said impatiently. “I’m taking you to dinner.”

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up. “And risk being seen together?” She laughed at the mere idea of it. “Can you imagine what the tabloids would say? Harry Potter’s ex and Harry Potter’s rival… The press would have a field day.”

“The place I’m taking you is known for its discretion,” Draco explained. “We’ll Apparate straight there and, when we’re done, we’ll go our separate ways.” An air of haughty derision crept into his voice. “Trust me, Weasley, I know how to handle the press.”

Ginny sighed, giving in. “Alright.” She reached out and placed her hand lightly in Draco’s, touching him as minimally as possible. “Lead the way.”

The world around them melted away, replaced with the dimly lit interior of a no doubt expensive restaurant. A well-dressed hostess approached them, a look of recognition in her eyes.

“Welcome, Mr. Malfoy,” the hostess said with a courteous smile. She took the pair of them in with a single, sweeping glance. “Will it be just the two of you dining this evening?”

“Yes, thank you,” Draco said. His voice held a tone Ginny wasn’t used to. It sounded like old money, like high society, like pureblood families and upturned noses. She didn’t like it.

“Right this way.”

They were seated at a table for two lit by hovering candles, with a black tablecloth and more forks than Ginny knew what to do with. When the hostess left to return to her station, Ginny spoke. “What is this place?”

“Morgaine’s,” Draco said. The snobby tone had gone from his voice, thank Merlin. “In London. It’s my mother’s favorite restaurant. Probably not what you’re used to.” He paused, frowned, then, “I didn’t intend for that to sound as condescending as it did.”

Ginny quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess after so many years of practice, condescension just comes naturally to you.” Draco glared.

“Hey, I’m here because _you_ wanted to talk,” he reminded her. “I’m a very busy man, you know. There’s plenty else I could be doing right now.”

Of course. Ginny had to be at least somewhat polite if she wanted to get any answers from Draco. She knew that. “You’re right,” she said, trying to sound chastened. “I guess after so many years of practice, hating Malfoys comes naturally to _me_.”

A waiter appeared out of seemingly nowhere. A notebook and self-writing quill levitated in front of him. “Mr. Malfoy,” he said with a respectful nod to Draco. He turned next to Ginny. “Ms.…?”

“Uh, Weasley,” she said.

“Can I get the two of you anything to drink?”

Draco turned to Ginny. “Wine?” he asked.

“Oh, yes.” Alcohol sounded like just what she needed right about then. With every moment, she felt like she was sinking farther and farther in over her head. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

Draco inclined his head to the waiter. “You know what I like,” he said dismissively. Once they were alone again, he asked, “Where do you want to begin?”

“What do you mean?”

“You wanted to talk,” Draco said. “About the war. That’s a pretty broad topic. Where do you want to begin?”

Ah. Yes. Ginny had prepared for this. She called to mind the list of questions she’d come up with; essentials only. She didn’t want to overwhelm Draco and risk him leaving before she’d asked something important. She started from the beginning: “My first year at Hogwarts—”

Draco interrupted before she could continue. “That far back?” he asked, sounding like he, too, could use a glass of wine right about then. Or a bottle. Thankfully, the waiter reappeared with said bottle in that very moment, filling their wine glasses and then setting it next to the candles on the table.

“I just have to ask one thing about that year,” Ginny promised. “Then we can skip ahead.”

Draco heaved a very put-upon sigh. Ginny repressed a roll of her eyes. It seemed that, even in adulthood, Draco hadn’t let go of all of his childish, melodramatic tendencies. Thankfully, hailing from the Weasley household as she did, Ginny was quite accustomed to drama. She continued as though she hadn’t been interrupted: “My first year at Hogwarts, when your father gave me Voldemort’s diary.” Draco cringed at Voldemort’s name; his hand twitched and the wine in his glass sloshed as he brought it to his mouth. It was a subtle movement, but not subtle enough to escape Ginny’s attention. “Did you know about it?”

This question was, perhaps, the most personal one she planned to ask. It was the only part of the war that had happened to _her_ specifically. Everything else had been inflicted upon Harry, or her family, or the Order of the Phoenix, or the wizarding world as a whole. But her possession by Voldemort, the things he used her body to do… it couldn’t get much more personal than that.

Draco’s answer sent a flood of relief washing over her: “No.” Thank Merlin. So she couldn’t, in any way, blame him for what had happened to her that year. It had all been his father’s doing, and he’d known nothing about it. Of course, he could be lying, but he seemed to have been candid with her thus far. Ginny had to trust that he was telling the truth. It wasn’t like she had a vial of Veritaserum on hand.

“And my fourth year… your fifth year,” Ginny continued, skipping ahead like she’d promised. “Your father spent all year trying to steal that prophecy from the Department of Mysteries. Did you know about that?”

“No. My father didn’t tell me anything in those days. And the Dark Lord certainly wouldn’t let a mere child in on his plans. So no. I didn’t know anything.”

“But Voldemort had to let you in at some point.”

Draco bit his lip, another subtle indication of his discomfort. “Even when I became… a Death Eater,” the fingers of his left hand twitched on the table, “I only knew what was relevant to my… assignment.”

“Which was to find a way for the other Death Eaters to get into Hogwarts.”

“And…” Draco swallowed a rather large gulp of wine, “To kill Dumbledore.”

“And when did you first become a Death Eater?” Draco seemed to be handling these straightforward, fact-based questions rather well. Unfortunately, in her upcoming questions, Ginny knew she’d be delving into dangerous territory. She hoped Draco had come mentally and emotionally prepared for this.

“The summer after my fifth year,” Draco told her. “After my father failed his assignment, to retrieve the prophecy.”

“And you spent all of your sixth year trying to figure out how to let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts?” Ginny remembered the end of Draco’s sixth year (her fifth year) vividly: Death Eaters attacking Hogwarts, Snape’s apparent betrayal, Dumbledore’s death. It had never occurred to her until recently, though, that the same year might have been just as traumatic from Draco’s point of view. Perhaps even more so.

“Yes.”

“Did…” Oh, this was going to be a tough one to ask. Ginny didn’t even want to think about it, really, but she had to know. “Did you also… practice?” Draco looked at her blankly, so she elaborated. “The Killing Curse. I’ve heard… well, I’ve heard it’s difficult.”

Draco looked at her seriously, almost somberly. “Do you really want to know?” he asked, giving Ginny an out if she wanted one.

No. “Yes.”

Draco sighed, averted his gaze, holding his glass in his hand and watching the wine swirl around it, guided by subtle movements of his wrist. “I did.” The pause that came after was one of the heaviest Ginny had ever experienced. “Not on humans, of course.”

Ginny’s voice was quiet. “On animals?”

“Yes.”

The waiter came, and Ginny wondered if he could sense the tension that had arisen between them. It seemed impossible to think that he couldn’t. It was a palpable thing, their conversation. Draco’s past. Dumbledore’s death. But the waiter took their orders like nothing was amiss, and left the two of them to their business.

“So you’ve never…” She gulped. “You’ve never killed anyone?”

Draco shrugged. “A few owls. Otherwise, no.”

“And when you went to go kill Dumbledore, did you really think you were going to do it? Did you think you could?”

Draco met Ginny’s gaze once more, and his cold gray eyes cut through her like a knife. “I hoped,” he said. The words echoed in Ginny’s skull, the admission that he’d _wanted_ to kill Dumbledore, that, if things had been just the slightest bit different, he would have. Ginny wondered where he would be, were that the case. Azkaban, probably.

“You have to understand,” Draco continued, a bit too matter-of-factly to be discussing someone’s death, “It was Dumbledore or me. Dumbledore or my parents. What would you have done?”

Ginny frowned. “I guess I’ve never thought about it like that.”

“Try to imagine it,” Draco said, keeping his eyes locked on hers, the intensity of his gaze preventing her from looking away. “The Dark Lord tells you to kill Dumbledore – he tells you this, in person – or he’ll kill your parents. Your brothers too, probably, in your case. He’ll kill them all. While you watch. And then he’ll kill you.” Draco paused, letting this sink in. “What would you do?”

Ginny imagined it. She imagined seeing Voldemort close up, imagined him standing before her in all his fierce inhumanity, threatening to kill her parents and brothers. She imagined watching them fall, one by one, to flashes of green light that struck them in the chest. She imagined their bodies crumpling, lifeless, like puppets with their strings cut. Like dolls. And she thought about holding her wand out in front of her and uttering those unforgiveable words, and she wondered if she’d be able to do it with that threat behind her, the threat of her family’s deaths. And she knew the answer.

“I would kill Dumbledore.”

Draco didn’t look pleased that she’d admitted this, didn’t look vindicated. He just looked sad. “Surprising what an easy choice it is, isn’t it?”


End file.
